The Gallery
Ed Ellis. The god of erotic art. His paintings are considered to be of classic quality. He works strictly with oil on canvas, each of his works the epitome of grace and class in terms of sheer technique. Some might say his subject matter is anything but: he depicts women in the deepest throes of lust, trapped in the darkest and dirtiest fantasies of men and women alike. Group sex, fetishes of all kinds, orgies, masturbation- he leaves no kink untouched, and does it all with an artist’s stroke often compared to Rembrandt or Renoir, and just as often said to leave them both lacking. The richest men and women in the world purchase his art and cherish it in secret bedrooms and love dens, hidden away from the public eye. For those fortunate enough to know him, his showroom is always open, but he refuses to make his work known to anyone outside his small circle.
“I do not wish for the public to know me, because the public knows so little about sex. Society turns it into a conflict when it is a joyous celebration of love and the creation of life,” he said in the only interview he has granted in the last fifteen years.
His small circle, however, has its way of making the rounds to most of the art community, and his underground legend grows and grows.
For a young art student taking a class in erotica, it wasn’t enough to hear rumors from people who knew people or read articles about his work. I wanted to know more about the artist. It was said about him that he had no innuendo in his paintings because he had enough in his life. The list of theories was long, and ranged from the absurd idea that he was a virgin who never used models, to the most sordid tales of the exploits that lead into his artwork. As has been the case with every great artist, the answer lies somewhere in between.
“I heard that with his controversial stuff, the stuff he’s really afraid of the public revolting at, the model doesn’t even take off her shoes. It’s the depiction of what men want from women as sex objects that’s so offensive. I heard the erotic stuff is flat out beautiful, sensual, breathtaking, and really classic,” my friend Dani said with a grin. I was doing a research paper on Ed Ellis, and Dani knew someone who knew someone who knew where his gallery was. If I could get in there, that paper would be near publishable. I was also curious for myself what his work was like, what his technique was like. It was said that he guarded his privacy zealously, but also that he would show his work to anyone whose intentions matched his high standards. I lost my train of thought then and there, fantasizing about the conversation, but Dani brought me back to reality.
“Besides, with tits like yours, you could ALWAYS just ask to be one of those models he never uses!” she suggested, her grin widening as she waggled her eyebrows.
“DANI!” I exclaimed. Not that I wasn’t proud of my body. Playing softball kept me in good shape, athletic but still femininely curved, and I knew most of my friends were jealous of my thick, naturally blonde hair. But I would never use it as fuel for some perverted painter’s fantasies!
We sent the letter through my professor and I was shocked when a week later I got a reply.
“86 East 69th Street. Wednesday at exactly five in the afternoon. I have no need of a model, and any dressed as such will be turned away,” the note read.
“A guy like that would live on 69th Street. How long you think he waited to find an apartment there?” Dani asked with disgust in her voice.
“His sense of humor is well renowned. Some of his fully clothed work was commissioned by comedians just for the humorous ways women are thought of by men. I really want to see his work,” I replied, having read enough analysis of his work despite never having seen any pictures.
I realized that I was pitching a softball game on Wednesday with a one o’clock start. Well, he specifically said not to come in looking like a model, and I owned nothing less sexy than my baby-blue softball uniform, what with its shoulder pads, figure-compressing sports bra, and unflattering pants, so I figured running down there in my uniform would suit his eccentric style just fine.
I arrived at five on the dot, saw E. Ellis on the building directory, and buzzed his apartment.
“My gallery is in the basement. I will meet you there,” he replied. The voice on the other end was raspy and obviously scarred by cigarettes. I wasn’t liking the mental image my imagination came up with as I took the elevator down to the basement. But the man- short and stocky, maybe in his late fifties, with thick gray hair- who met me a few minutes later had a certain elegance to him that chased away any idea of him being a creep. He opened the door just enough for us both to enter and closed it firmly behind us. There was an easel and canvas set up in the wide-open room- an Ed Ellis in progress! My heart sped up at the thought of being the first to see even part of one of his pieces.
“Hope you don’t mind if I work while we talk,” he said.
“Of course not! I’m honored!”
“I see you came in right after a game- did you win? I’m glad to hear that. Not quite what I was warning about, but I appreciate your attention to punctuality. A true artist pays attention to even the smallest details. The way I do the few interviews I allow is that you see my paintings, you ask about them, and I answer. My life is my work, my work is my life; nothing beyond that matters. And as so few get to see my work, this has the widest appeal and the most interest to the average interviewer and reader. Start on the left wall- these are my male collection. They deal with the way men see women, and how even the most mundane activity stirs their animal instincts,” he said.
“As long as I’m not the one you’re working on,” I said with a chuckle. He laughed in response and bent to his easel with the broad strokes that suggested he was working on a background. I took a close look at the figures and was amazed. They were extremely realistic, yet too beautiful to be real. The attention to detail was breathtaking, and every person was so vibrant they seemed real. I was in complete awe, and it took me a few minutes to step back and look at the subject matter. There were three cheerleaders, all smiling and performing their routine, completely oblivious to what was happening behind them. The first was leading a rally call with a megaphone while a man was behind her, hands up her sweater and all over her breasts while a slightly obscured penis was going up her rear; the second was being held atop a human pyramid, but the pyramid was made up of male hands covering every inch of her legs up to her panties; the third was in mid-air, doing a split-leg toss, but instead of being suspended in mid-air, she seemed to be impaled upon a giant penis. Perspective revealed that none of the girls were actually being touched; instead, it was the intent of the men’s desire that was all but raping them. The title was “Go, Fight, Win”.
“I see what my friend meant by your most controversial work involving the girls not even taking their shoes off,” I commented.
“The male mind, by nature, is very one-dimensional and predatory, while the female mind is complex and defensive; it is this conflict that is at the core of our problems.” Mr. Ellis said and I felt somewhat empowered by the painting. When I saw the next picture, I burst into uncontrollable laughter. It featured a line of women with varying expressions of disgust, anger, and defiance on their faces as they rejected the men around them. But below the waist, the male fantasy had taken over: each one had her pants or skirt on the floor around her ankles, every one of them in a sexually charged pose. It was so true and so poignant, and reflected the kind of discomfort I’d felt more than a few times traveling alone. He’d titled it “In Your Dreams”.
“You’re a genius! But of course you know that,” I said, taken by the accuracy, the sharpness, the colors, the beautiful long legs, the naked cunts, the high-heeled shoes, every magnificent detail. I suddenly thought I saw myself in the painting, that somehow he’d dug up an old memory of being stared at like a piece of meat. Yes, the girl in the back, shaking her fists even as she bent over doggy-style with her jeans sliding off her ass. But it was a model’s ass, there to be stared at and admired; it was so beautiful, so warm and soft, so real that I reached out for it and was shocked when I hit canvas. The jolt woke me up and I blushed when I realized that I’d been staring for a good half hour. But Mr. Ellis didn’t seem to mind, instead ushering me on to another painting.
“You know, biologically speaking, the pleasure of sex is meant to brainwash and control a woman. It binds her to her man, and makes her unwilling to want anything else so children can be created. Crude? Perhaps you prefer to call it ‘falling in love’,” Mr. Ellis said. He gestured at another painting. “My most controversial piece, ‘The Memory’.”
“It is the only orgasm in the male section, because of its pinup value, but it is a very female piece,” he explained as I studied it. It showed a demure young woman in the throes of uncontrollable lust at her job. Her high heels were propped up on the desk, her hips caught mid-buck, her hands hovering just over her crotch as if she were hesitant to touch herself yet so obviously needing to, her head tilted back in pure, unadulterated ecstasy against the back of her chair, her mouth round as if she were moaning as she hit her climax. She was the center of attention, every man watching her with pleasure and interest. The one other woman in the scene stood over her shoulder, her eyes locked on the screen, her hands under her blouse as her chest heaved, her lips parted in a gasp. I couldn’t see what was written on the screen, so I looked closer to read the small print. It looked like “about last night”, but then I blinked and it read “last night was great”, then “remember last night”, then “remember the time”, then “remember your first time?”
It was getting harder and harder to open my eyes each time I blinked, because I was starting to remember that first time, daydreaming on my feet. I started to feel sleepy, so very sleepy; the only thing keeping me awake was the arousal running through my body like electricity, making my nipples hard as my breathing came hard and fast. Even when my eyes did open, I couldn’t take them off the painting, and finally they fluttered shut. Just before I came, they opened one last time. “How did it feel?” the painting asked. That was it, that was enough. As I creamed myself, moaning uncontrollably, everything became a timeless blur.
When I woke up, I was facing Mr. Ellis. He turned around the painting he’d been working on. It was me all along! I was on the diamond, standing at home plate, ready to bat, in full uniform, except that the bat was painted to show that it was halfway inside me. I could feel it there, like the largest, hardest, most satisfying vibrator ever. The painted me was stopped over, body seizing in orgasm, tonguing the baseball in my glove. The flesh-and-blood me struck the exact same pose and froze in place, locked in unity with the painting. The sight of myself in eternal bliss kept me entranced. I knew in my soul that as long as the painted me was in orgasm, the other me would also be- and the painting would be that way forever, so I would be that way forever. Just the thought made me come again. I owed Mr. Ellis a lot for this privilege.
“Sliding into home?” Mr. Ellis asked me, confirming the title of the painting. All I could do was nod. Even that was an effort.
“Yes, you are ready for the female section, aren’t you?” Mr. Ellis asked, running his hand between my legs and nothing how hot and wet my pussy was. “Very well, come with me,” he said, getting up and leaving the painted me to dry. I was powerless to resist. My mind was completely tuned in to his voice, and it was the only thing I could think about other than the fantasies I had seen in the various pictures. He led me back up the elevator to his apartment. A woman dressed as a cheerleader opened the door. She looked like one of his paintings come to life. Her makeup reflected the light in the same way the paint had captured my attention. Within seconds, I was as enthralled by her as I had been by his other art. She walked to the bedroom and I followed her.
The painting on the wall over the bed was of her. She was naked except for the ribbon in her hair and the innocent white socks on her feet. She was in the back seat of a car, her clothes scattered all over the scene, her legs wrapped around the football player who was thrusting inside her, her mouth drooling, her eyes fixed on a distant land of pleasure. She was in full climax, and I could see the beauty of the moment, the split second of ultimate bliss that he had captured like a true master. My mind clouded over as I entered a state of euphoria I had never felt before. Just the sight of her, eternally in climax, was making me come again and again. My legs could no longer hold me up as I collapsed onto the bed. Mr. Ellis walked in as the woman stripped me naked.
“Whitewash her,” I heard Mr. Ellis say to his assistant. Even if I’d cared, I couldn’t move, still lost in the feeling of thousands of hands all over my body. She pulled me up and stood me upright. I stayed in the position she put me, my eyes fixed on her.
“It’s his own blend of paint, reflective and hypnotic,” she explained. “Just keep staring.” I suddenly realized that she wasn’t dressed as a cheerleader- she was painted as a cheerleader, every inch of her covered in the vivid colors that had mesmerized me. The tiny part of me that was still an art student was fascinated, but as the assistant took off my shirt and bra, that tiny part of me grew ever smaller. I couldn’t even remember where I was, but just when I was starting to be afraid, a fine paintbrush caressed my nipple. It seemed to be standard makeup, but standard makeup wouldn’t intensify every feeling of pleasure in my body. My fears faded into fantasies as she spread the makeup all over my upper body.
“Tell me your name,” the assistant said.
“My name is, uh…ummm…uhhhhhhh….ohhhhhhhhhhhhh what….oooohhhh.” The assistant took my pants and panties off and suddenly all I could do was moan. I couldn’t think about anything, couldn’t even remember my own name. I was nothing but a blank canvas ready to be turned into an Ed Ellis masterpiece. As she coated my legs in the makeup, I began to lose consciousness, falling further into dreams as it soaked in, until my deepest sexual fantasy was looking me right in the face. Yes, right, the right guy, the right time, the right world, a future world. Bright lights were all around me, reflecting off the silver and red bodysuit that clung to me, massaging me inside with every step. The man wore nothing as he undid my suit and laid me down. The lights flashed faster and faster as he went inside me, blinking in time with his thrusts. It felt so good, so wonderful, as I pushed against him and he pushed deeper into me. The lights seemed to descend on us, still in perfect time with our rhythm. Thrust, flash, thrust, flash, thrust flash thrust flash thrustflashthrustflashthrustflash-
I felt him come inside me, and I came for him, falling back into the black of space and the blinding white light.
When my eyes opened I could only see my female painting, the moment of my climax framed by futuristic lights and a black background. I had no identity yet. Only when I tore my eyes away from my painted self did I see that I was dressed in my softball uniform again- except that it was painted on, a second skin. As it soaked in and dried to a smooth, hard finish, I was able to focus on who I now was: a softball-playing dyke attracted to hot chicks like that cheerleader. And what I now was: a work of erotic art, part of someone’s private collection, there to awaken and pleasure whoever called me.
Gena Donnelly, the lesbian king of Hollywood, regards “The Batter’s Box”, “Sliding Into Home”, and “The Light Fantastic” with a smile. “Magnificent,” she murmurs. Of course, “The Batter’s Box” does not reply. “Well worth those months of waiting.”
“I am an Ed Ellis original, one-of-a-kind interactive erotic art, made just for you. Use me as you please,” ‘The Batter’s Box’ concludes. Message finished, she returns to her frozen pose, waiting to be used and pleasured.
Gena’s smile widens. Already, a few ideas come to mind…